


The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives

by MaryPSue



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Community: rotg_kink, Gen, blacksand if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryPSue/pseuds/MaryPSue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two immortals, an averted apocalypse, and a duck pond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2389.html?thread=4267349#cmt4267349
> 
> This turned out far less shippy than the prompt asked for, and far less witty than I'd hoped for. Ah, well.

The ducks have been fed by so many secret agents meeting covertly that they're conditioned to look up expectantly at the sight of anyone in sunglasses and a dark suit. Pitch is no exception.  
  
He spares the hopeful waterfowl only the briefest of derisive glances before turning back to his companion, who is cheerfully scattering breadcrumbs over the surface of the pond. Despite this, the ducks still continue to scrutinize Pitch, apparently having decided that he must be KGB and therefore in possession of far better-quality breadcrumbs than the cheap white Wonderbread Sandy has to offer.  
  
"Don't encourage them, Sanderson," Pitch sighs, and Sandy flashes him his widest, most brilliant smile, tossing another handful of crumbs at the ducks. The birds, seemingly concluding that delicious Russian black bread is not forthcoming, begin to bob and dive after the offering. For a few long minutes, Pitch and Sandy simply watch the ducks, the quiet sounds of the park the only things that break the silence.  
  
"So that's it?" Pitch finally asks, turning to his shorter counterpart. "Apocalypse averted? Everything just...goes back to normal now?"  
  
Sandy cants his head to one side, and fixes Pitch with a look that the darker being chooses to interpret as meaning that 'normal' is relative wherever they're involved.  
  
"It all seems too easy," he says. "All that drama, all of this building up armies, signs and portents - just for it all to stop because of a child and his group of friends? Just because one boy doesn't _believe_ the world needs destroying?"  
  
Sandy shrugs, and Pitch has known him long enough to be able to read the disagreement in the lines of his shoulders.  
  
"All right, fine, not just _any_ child," he grumbles. "But it seems like a tall order to get the Old Man to back down on anything, even for his own son."  
  
Sandy shrugs again, and this time it's very clearly a shrug of dismissal. Not his business. Another handful of breadcrumbs is scattered out over the water.  
  
"You know the brat filled my entire entryway with ice sculptures?" Pitch comments, trying to look anywhere but directly into the setting sun. Sandy glances up, curiosity writ large across his broad face, and Pitch nods. "Horses, mostly, for some reason." He doesn't mention the...more embarrassing ones. He and Sandy have gotten along fine for several thousand years on the strength of the Agreement and an iron-clad mutual respect; it wouldn't do to shatter it now by having to explain why a seven-foot tall, perfectly proportionate, _anatomically correct_ ice sculpture of Sanderson is currently gracing Pitch's foyer.   
  
Sandy nods knowingly.   
  
"Why, what did he leave you with?" Pitch asks, unable to contain his curiosity, and Sandy's round cheeks colour as he turns quickly back to the ducks. _Interesting._ Maybe the seven-foot-tall sculpture wouldn't be seen as such a horrendous breach of the Agreement after all.   
  
"Well, whatever it was, he must have been grateful," Pitch continues, smoothly, not missing a beat. Sandy nods with a little too much enthusiasm, obviously thankful that the conversation is back on track and out of the proverbial woods. "You have to wonder, though," Pitch mutters, looking up. "Was this the plan all along?"  
  
In the dim red light of the setting sun, the sliver of moon barely visible in the sky almost looks as though it's winking.  
  
A tug on his sleeve pulls Pitch back down to earth. Sandy taps his watch, and Pitch sighs dramatically. "Already? Surely you have time enough for one drink with your oldest nemesis? After all, we did just save the world."  
  
The look Sandy gives him is skeptical, and Pitch rolls his eyes. "All right, we, an aging stage wizard with a broken-down motor-scooter, some daft girl who thinks she's descended from the fairies, a couple of witchfinders, and the Antichrist saved the world. Happy now?"  
  
Sandy nods, smiling brightly, and starts to walk away from the pond, pulling Pitch along in his wake.  
  
"Now, I think you owe me from - what was it? 1776? Ugh, what a _dreadful_ year that was."   
  
The ducks watch them go, then turn their attention to the man in the camel-hair coat and his companion with a professional-looking briefcase on the other side of the pond. There might be a whole baguette in this transaction for them, if they play their cards right.


End file.
